How I Learned To Love Teachers' Meetings
by Oracle Obscured
Summary: Snape finds distraction from the tedium of faculty meetings with the help of the new DADA professor. (SS/HG)


A/N: This story contains sexual situations (and spanking). You have been warned.

I despise teachers' meetings. May the deranged mind that dreamed up this farce be tortured by a never-ending Cruciatus. Why Albus insists I be here is beyond me. I add nothing to the proceedings. An absolute waste of time. What more can possibly be said about trips to Hogsmeade and house points? It's the same mind-numbing conversation every year.

Oh look, here comes our newest addition: Little Miss Perfect, Hermione Granger. It's insufferable enough having Longbottom here, now I've got to endure an actual member of the Golden Trio. Although, as Defense instructor, she shouldn't be here long. History tells me I'll be rid of her in ten months. A small consolation.

Blast! Why is she sitting next to me? There are at least six other empty chairs left. I always sit at the far, short end of the table, away from everyone else, _for a reason_. It prevents nasty accidents, like unwanted conversation, from occurring. The purposeful void of human presence surrounding me is clearly too complicated for her to grasp. My glare elicits nothing but a small placating smile. I consider relocation, but Dumbledore has convened the meeting. My suffering knows no bounds.

As soon as the word "Hogsmeade" passes his lips, I zone out. I could be doing something productive right now. Reading. Doing lesson plans. Working in my lab. Instead, I'm sitting on my backside in an overcrowded room, listening to one of the most brilliant wizarding minds of this age talk about permission slips. I think my brain just started bleeding.

I feel a touch of pressure at the side of my leg. Glancing down I see Granger's knee has strayed into my vicinity. It's not enough that she has to invade my bubble of solitude, now she's invading my person. I give her a disgusted look, but she's so wrapped up in Dumbledore's ramblings my disgust goes unnoticed. I refuse to retreat. She's the one in breech of etiquette. I _am_ entitled to the legroom set before my own chair. Just because the rest of the wizarding world bows to her whims doesn't mean I will.

How can she not feel this? Her knee is burning a hole in my leg. At least I've got the excuse of trousers to explain my "unawareness." What does she have? That little skirt she's wearing isn't blocking the sensations in her leg. She must feel something. The heat. The pressure. That itchy tingling.

In one smooth move, she shifts her entire calf against mine, pressing into me like a cat. This is no bloody accident. I'm too flabbergasted to move. My skin sparks and jumps where we touch; it feels as if I've been hexed. Studying her from the corner of my eye, she appears to be hanging on Albus's every word, oblivious to our connection. She almost has _me_ fooled. There's a soft rustling as she rubs her leg against mine; still, her face reveals nothing.

When her hand migrates from her lap to my knee, I can't keep my mask of indifference in place. Stunned, I turn my head and look at her. She squeezes my knee but otherwise shows no outward signs of recognition. I return my attention to the space above Dumbledore's head. I have no idea what he's said for the past ten minutes. Nothing of consequence I'm sure. Her hand slips a fraction higher, and she starts drawing idle patterns on my thigh. Why is she doing this? Sexual attraction seems absurdly out of the question. I wasn't exactly kind to her when she was a student. If this is some twisted attempt to get back at me, I won't succumb. Is her need for revenge that great? I'd be impressed with her mind games if I wasn't the target. The thought of calling her out and embarrassing her in front of everyone sounds appealing; but I'm conflicted, curious to see what she'll do next.

As the meeting drones on, her hand insidiously climbs my leg. There is a long discussion over which Weasley products are to be banned this year, but I only catch half of it. My eyes flick over the other faculty members, wondering if any of them suspect what's happening right beneath their noses. We're too far away, and the table is too high. I realize that to everyone else, Granger simply appears to be sitting with her hands just out of sight on the armrests. Who would ever suspect that the Golden Girl of Gryffindor has her hand three inches from my crotch? Well played, Miss Granger, well played. My cock certainly seems impressed. Its standing ovation is being painfully constrained by my trousers.

Is it getting hotter in here? Is a fire absolutely necessary? Wool frock coats are called for in the dungeons, but it seems I've chosen incorrectly for a September evening in the Staff Room. When is this going to be over? I'm boiling. Merlin's bloody balls! How high is she going to go?

Her fingers ascend once more, and I feel the soft grazing of her pinky along the edge of my erection. I close my eyes before anyone can see them rolling back in my head. Her hand curves around my inner thigh, the side of her finger wedged against my balls. This is unbearable.

Thankfully, just then, Dumbledore adjourns the meeting and wishes us all a good start of term. Her hand slips back to her own lap, and my torture comes to an end. She rises from her chair. I can't look at her. I've been temporarily defeated. If she thinks I'm just going to let this go, she's got another think coming. I can hear her chatting with McGonagall as they exit the room. She's safe for now. I'm trapped by the treason in my trousers. I picture Filch naked until I can stand without endangering myself.

Once out in the hallway, I scan the terrain for her blasted, bushy head. There she is, heading toward the entryway. I overtake her quickly. A quick scan of the surroundings assures me we're not being observed. I seize her by the arm and spin her around to face me. Her eyes go wide with shock. Did she really think she was going to get away with it?

"My classroom. Now." It's all I can get out before dragging her down to the dungeons.

In my room, I back her into the door until it clicks shut.

"What in the hell was that?" I hiss.

Confusion pinches her features. "I thought it was pretty obvious."

"Your pathetic attempt at revenge?"

"Revenge?"

"Do you have another name for it?" I sneer.

Her pink lips open and close a few times before words start to flow. "Yes. Attraction."

Her answers don't make sense. "I will not be made a fool of, Miss Granger."

"I wasn't trying to make—"

"How did you think I would respond to your little game this evening?"

A small smile lights her face. "That was better than I'd hoped."

"What was better than you'd hoped?"

"Your response."

"You wanted me angry?"

"Your first response," she amends.

"You wanted to humiliate me?" Is she admitting her motive?

"No, sir." She looks hurt by the suggestion.

"Maybe you'd better explain it to me."

A look of exasperation crosses her face. "My God! Is it so hard for you to believe I'm attracted to you?"

I don't like that look of pity creeping into her eyes. "Revenge is much more plausible."

"But inaccurate," she smiles.

I feel as if I'm about to be the victim of some childish prank. "Why didn't you just say something?"

"You keep making excuses to leave every time I try to talk to you."

"So your solution was to molest me during a teachers' meeting?"

Her grin is unnerving. "I knew you couldn't run away."

I arch an eyebrow. "I do not run away."

"Are you angry with me?"

Is she dense? "Yes!"

"Really? You seemed to be enjoying yourself." Her gaze flicks down to my trousers.

The bloody cheek. "Don't get cocky," I warn.

"I could say the same for you," she smirks.

My eyes roll. "You do know it doesn't take any special powers to get that reaction, don't you? It's an involuntary response."

Seemingly amused by this, she repeats it back, "An involuntary response. Yes, sir. I understand."

This is getting too antagonistic. Why am I fighting it? I haven't gotten laid in ages. I should just give her what she says she wants. Maybe that's it. I don't entirely believe her confession. Why me? How can she overlook seven years of snide comments and cruelty?

"Don't get cheeky with me, young lady," I sneer. "And if you give me that look one more time, I'll put you over my knee."

The smile fades, but she doesn't look scared. Her eyes are wide and unblinking. "Promise?"

Bloody hell! It was just a bluff. I wanted to wipe that damn smirk off her face. She is, most assuredly, not bluffing. She hasn't broken eye contact, and her pupils look like two looming Bludgers. My dick voices its opinion, doubling her dare. My brain, however, is still grappling with disbelief. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to play with fire, Miss Granger?"

The grin reappears. "I like to keep warm, sir."

Fuck! If that's the game she wants to play, I won't deny her. There's a worktable right behind us. I lean against it, propping one leg along the edge. When I drag her over my thigh, she gets into place with no resistance. Even when I release her, she makes no attempt to flee. She really does want this. Me.

Her round bum is begging to be smacked, and I oblige. The first slap isn't too hard, but the next one is. And the next. Her skirt is dulling the thud, offering too much protection. Time to see how warm she really likes it. I start to pull her skirt up around her hips, waiting for her to object. She remains silent. Her bottom is slowly revealed. It's remarkable, a round vision of loveliness. Her knickers are insubstantial at best, a waste of lace at worst. I can't say I dislike them—they do match my wardrobe—they're just in my way. I give her a few more swats over top of them so she knows what she's getting into. I hear the sharp hiss of an inhale, but she stays put.

"Getting too warm, Miss Granger?"

"Maybe you should take off my knickers so I don't overheat."

I almost laugh out loud. Her playful gibes are not what I was expecting. Hell, this whole evening isn't what I was expecting. She's attractive and well-respected. Why is she here, in my room, with her skirt bunched up round her waist? She could have any wizard she wants. Why me? Why am I going along with it? The conquest? Loneliness? I don't know if my motives are something I wish to examine right now.

I peel her knickers down over her hips. Her skin is a glowing shade of pink. I intend to make it red before stopping. "Push them down," I order. "Hand them to me."

She obeys, presenting her panties to me like an offering, then gets right back over my knee. Accepting the scrap of material, I'm shocked at how wet they are. An oasis of cool damp fabric proclaims her eagerness. I raise one brow in mocking jest. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."

Looking at me over her shoulder, she deadpans, "It's an involuntary response."

Smart-mouth little swot. I'm going to beat her backside crimson.

"To what?" I ask, slapping each cheek in quick succession.

She hisses. "To being around you."

Is she just saying that so I'll go easier on her?

"Your days must get uncomfortable," I observe as I begin anew, volleying smacks to her proffered posterior.

"You have no idea, sir," she says through clenched gasps.

When my palm tires, I stop to rest. She's breathing hard against the granite tabletop. Her cheeks are hot enough to simmer a cauldron over, and they've taken on a mottled, red hue. "Had enough yet, Miss Granger?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"What's going to happen next."

I have no idea where this is going. I haven't considered much beyond turning her arse red. Does she honestly want me to fuck her? It still sounds a little unbelievable despite the mounting evidence. It's been so long, I've forgotten what it's like to have someone else touching me. I don't know if that's a pro or a con. Maybe forgetfulness is better. Safer.

"What do you want to happen?" I ask.

She peeks back over her shoulder. "How explicit do you want me to be?"

I'm intrigued. What other scenarios has the Brain of Gryffindor been concocting? Spanking was clearly on her list. She seemed awfully quick to accept. I urge her to stand, and she meets my questioning gaze. I search out her intentions in her overcrowded mind. It's like wading through a hail storm. I'm bombarded with thousands of projectiles, tearing at me, stinging my eyes. I can only catch fleeting glimpses of her fantasies. Focusing on one as it whizzes past, I try to hold it still. An image of me pinning her wrists to the bed while I fuck her blooms to life before my inner eye. Her imagination is vivid. The point of view is hers. I'm watching my own face looming over her, hearing my own voice purring praise and direction. The feeling engendered by this scene is palpable. She wants to be taken, fucked into oblivion. I don't know if I can give her what she wants. I feel rusty and the threat of inadequacy makes me hesitant.

I spy a another flash of myself and grasp hold of the image. We're in a dungeon hallway, and she's kneeling before me with her lips wrapped around my cock. Her need to please me is overwhelming, coloring the whole image with a warm glow. She's getting off on my pleasure. I'm both encouraged and turned on by this knowledge.

Before I can suggest moving to an alternate location, her lips are on mine. I stumble from her head, back into reality. I can't remember the last time someone kissed me like this (or at all). I always preferred my "dates" use their mouths for more carnal pursuits.

With a start, I realize I'm kissing her back. Her lower lip is a marvel. Nothing should be this soft. Her mouth parts, and I feel her breath ghost over my lips. Her tongue is softly tapping, requesting entrance. Who could deny her? When I meet her questing with my own tongue, she moans. The sound hums into my oral cavity, tickling my lips and igniting my balls. I can hear my own breathing sharp and loud against her cheek.

Her hands are at my neck, urging me closer. There are other ways I'd like to penetrate her, but this will do for now. My hands fall to her naked hips. If she's eager to erase the distance between us, I'll make a less chaste suggestion. Pulling her forward, her belly bumps the bulge in my trousers. When she feels it, there's a sharp gasp around my tongue followed by the sexiest moan I've ever heard in my entire life. Her pelvis grinds against me, a devilish move that makes me groan back. These trousers must have been tailored by Lucifer himself; they are far too tight, and I'm fairly certain the zipper has lacerated me. She slips her hands down to my chest, tearing at my coat as if it has personally offended her. We'll be here all night if she tries to tackle all these buttons by hand. There are far more pressing matters.

"Lower," I mutter into her mouth.

I can feel her smile against my lips as her hands trail down to my belt. There's a sudden tug, and my breathing is constricted then she flicks the prong free and I'm able to inhale. The soft jingle of the buckle sounds strangely erotic in her presence. There's no physical restriction on my breathing now, but as soon as her fingers slip past my waistband and fumble at the button of my trousers, I can't get my lungs to work. Breathing is overrated anyway. The zip glides down, its teeth obscenely loud in the silence. She wastes no time; her hand is pumping me through my boxers, encasing me in a cotton vice.

Backing from my lips, she stares up at me, panting as though I just chased her round the room. Her face is flushed, the pink seeping down her neck like watercolors, disappearing below the v of her open collar. I want to unbutton her shirt and see how far down it goes. She's watching my face as she strokes me. When she discovers the wet patch left by my leaking cock, she smiles at me and lingers longer than necessary at the spot, reveling in my need. What a wicked witch we could have made of her in Slytherin.

"What did I tell you about giving me that damn look?"

"What look?" she grins.

"That one," I growl. "You look like that cat that got the cream."

Her hand slips down the front of my shorts, and I hiss as her fingers wrap me in a ring of fire.

"That's what I had in mind," she mutters, sinking down to the floor in front of me.

My trousers and boxers fall to a rumpled heap at my feet. She's holding my coat out of her way, staring at my cock like it's her Everest. I hear her mutter "Sweet Circe." As a compliment, I'll take it. A flick of my wand unbuttons my coat, and she tears her eyes away to look up at me.

"What about the shirt?" she prompts.

I don't like being more naked than her. "What about yours?" I counter.

She smirks and starts to unbutton her blouse.

I mirror her movements, exposing my chest at the same pace she does. Of course she's got another layer to go. Her bra is black lace, a smokey match to her knickers. I can see the pink tips of her areola behind the sheer material; the sharp buds of her nipples poke at the dark seams. My cock twitches its approval, and she smiles at it. Does she have to notice everything?

"Off or on?" she asks, tracing the edge of her bra.

Every word breezes over my straining flesh. I'm surprised I have enough blood left to stand. "Off."

Nodding, she reaches back and unhooks it. It slinks down her arms, leaving her breathtakingly bare from the waist up. Her nipples tighten under my gaze. I don't have time to admire their strength—she's leaning forward, kissing my cock. Her tongue is amazing, flicking and swirling over my length, lapping at every inch. Her lips are just as sublime below the waist as they were above the neck. I can't remember why I was so reticent about this. She sucks me into her mouth, and I let out a ragged sigh. I'm immersed in a world of soft, wet heat. One of her hands is stroking my balls while her mouth consumes me. I don't know who taught her this, but I'm going to send him a thank you note later.

Her other hand is still pumping me, covering what her mouth can't reach. How is she doing that with her tongue? I'm not going to last much longer. Is that what I want? To come like this? It sounds superb, but I'd rather fuck her. She can't scream my name with my dick down her throat. What a delightful dilemma. I have to choose soon or the choice will be made for me.

"Stop," I whisper. My vocal cords don't seem to be in accordance with my brain. She looks up at me as I pull her bobbing face from my length. "Stop!"

A wet pop marks the separation. I still her hands with my own. "That was excellent."

I wouldn't have known what she wanted to hear if I hadn't been in her head. I should have guessed from her school days that praise would get her wetter than anything else. Her desire to prove herself and be the best was the driving force behind her success. The look of shock on her face almost makes me laugh. "What?"

"You've never complimented me before."

No, I guess I hadn't. It's not in my nature. Why had I done it now? To make her happy? To turn her on? She'd done equally impressive things as a student…but nothing so personal. Perhaps that was it. No one had ever really striven to please me in such an intimate way. Other witches had performed the same act, but it was always tainted by an air of obligation. They were counting the seconds until it was over. Granger seems _disappointed_ it's over. Is this normal for her? Why would any sane man ever let her out of his bed?

My silence only makes her grin return; it's a grin of triumph.

"Don't gloat, Miss Granger. It's bad form."

Her attempt to look serious fails. Badly. "Sorry, involuntary response," she drawls as I help her to stand.

"Dammit, girl. What did I tell you about being cheeky?"

Her grin widens. "That it gets you hard and you need more?"

I growl and grip her face with one hand, pulling her close. "If this is a joke to you, you can leave right now. I don't need the aggravation."

Lies. All lies. I won't let her leave.

Her face softens, and she reaches up to stroke my cheek. Does my anger no longer inspire fear? Am I losing my touch?

"I'm sorry, Severus. I don't mean to make you cross."

"That's better." I like the way my name sounds on her lips.

"Unless it makes you want to spank me again," she smirks.

Her impudence shouldn't be encouraged, but I can't keep my lips from twitching. She kisses me again, and I forget what we were arguing about. The bitter flavor of my lust lingers in her mouth, but the underlying warm, friendly taste of her merges with it to create a new experience. I wonder what our fluids taste like commingled. Dropping a hand down to her sodden snatch, I draw my finger up her slit. She shudders and moans into my mouth. She's drowning in her own juices. I bend lower and slide my finger inside of her. Her walls clutch at me, trying to hold me in place.

When I pull out, my hand is soaked. Once I disengage our lips, I lick her honey from my finger. Ambrosia. The salty sweet cream of her sex dances over my palate. She watches me lick my palm clean, her brown eyes darkening to burnt mahogany. I catch her face in my wet hand and meet her lips, slipping my tongue past her gaping mouth, sharing her contribution. The cocktail is better than I'd imagined. Her agile little tongue is mixing our elements, savoring the combination. I agree, it's intoxicating.

I find the zip on her skirt and shove it down to the floor. The thigh-highs can stay. They're a nice touch. I lift her onto the table, and she squeals against my lips. I don't know if she's surprised by the move or if her sore bum is protesting the contact. I have to leave her lips to speak. "Lie back."

She does, and I push up her knees, spreading her open. Her glistening petals part for me, insisting I partake. When I reach her mound of Venus, I'm assaulted by the sweet musk of her lust. She reeks of want. I bask in it, running my nose along the fragrant line of her sex. With two fingers, I spread her petals, exposing the juicy, pink interior. When my tongue slices through her heat, she makes a pained mewling sound in her throat. I hope no one's lingering outside the door. I don't recall soundproofing it. They'll think I'm doing something unforgivable in here. Perhaps I am.

Although her hips urge me to devour her, I'm content to take my time. If this is a one-night deal, I don't wish to squander it. She is an endless fount of honey, renewing the supply no matter how much I lick. I slip a finger inside her and focus my oral talents on her clitoris. Her hands fist in my hair, but the pain is mild. I don't mind. I haven't feasted like this in decades. It's all coming back to me. She's making it easier. Her vocal commendations leave little guess work about what she likes. When I add another finger, she bucks and moans.

"Severus!"

Is that begging or cheering? I can't tell with her thighs muffling my ears. I want her to come now. Waiting until I fuck her seems risky. What if I don't last? I can just see the disappointment in her eyes now. Her pity would be sickening. She needs the preparation of a third digit, but the resistance of her muscles waylays my attempt. She's trying to break my fingers.

I've never seen a witch this wet before. She's like liquid silk. Although I still feel the need to please her, I realize I'm not doing it to avoid her disapproval. I actually want to be the cause of her pleasure. Is that an equally selfish reason? Benevolence has never been one of my trademarks. I doubt I've turned a new leaf.

Her clit is distended against my tongue. I tip it back and forth in a steady motion. How soon will she fall? I want her to come while I'm fucking her. That is selfish; the reasons are not altruistic. If I play my cards right, maybe I can make her come more than once. I shouldn't just assume that's possible. It seems to be an individual ability. I'll ask later.

"Don't stop," she whispers.

Does that mean she's close? It sounds like it. It feels like it too. I swear her muscles are undulating around my fingers, and she's dripping like a garden hose. Her hands rhythmically grip my hair as she rides my face. At least I don't have to figure out what pace she wants.

The end of her moan takes a painful swerve, and she whispers my name. Her inner muscles spasm around my fingers, a tight and decidedly wet climax. Guttural noises are escaping her (the soundtrack to my dreams for the next month at least).

As her body slowly relaxes, she jerks and shivers under my tongue. Relinquishing her hold on my hair, she rubs at my scalp in apology as she whispers my name again. It sounds as though she's smiling. Ascending her body, I relish her heady grin before kissing her. I want her to lick her release from me. When I pull away, her lips gleam with smeared juice. It's a good look on her.

"Are you ready to come again?" I ask.

She blinks blankly back at me for several shocked seconds, then her lips twitch into a small smile. "Definitely."

I take that to mean she can. I swear she's even tighter now. Her entrance is swollen and bumpy, engorged with blood. It takes longer this time, but my patience is infinite when properly motivated. The slow stroking at my scalp gradually becomes a spastic clenching; her hips start rocking steadily. The small needy sighs turn to moans and words (words I never thought I'd hear coming from her—not only filthy but complimentary). My erection hasn't abated; I suspect her lascivious praise is to thank for that. Three fingers finally find success. I twist and curl them inside her until she's begging.

"Tell me when you're close," I murmur.

"Yes, sir."

Sweet Circe! I had no idea she was such a submissive underneath all that incessant hand-waving and swottiness. It's a side of her I wouldn't mind seeing more of. Her pleading becomes louder. She hasn't indicated that she's close, but I know now how to get her there. My tongue ticks a constant rhythm over her clit. I twist my fingers in deeper, and her words become incoherent. When my pinky accidentally brushes the puckered pink of her anus, she almost bucks off the table. Interesting. I do it again, on purpose this time. She utters a string of expletives and grinds against my tongue.

"I'm close!"

If I wasn't so desperate to be inside her, I would be laughing at that. My strategy will be more on point next time. Keeping the clitoral stimulation steady with my finger, I stand and position myself at her entrance. Her eyes are boring holes through me, intense and wild. As I slowly sink inside, her mouth falls open, her colorful vocabulary failing her. Muscles squeeze and flutter around me in shocked welcome. I have to keep it slow for both her sake and mine. The invasion could be painful for her but would undoubtedly be my undoing. I refuse to humiliate myself for a few seconds' pleasure.

Smothered by her slick heat, I bury myself until I bottom out. She's so wet the feeling is bordering on surreal, as though I'm fucking a satin fist—in the tropics. How is she not delirious with fever? She's like a bonfire, burning me alive. Her teeth are worrying her lower lip into a state of shiny rawness. I want to lick it better. I want to climb on top of her and fuck her through the table. I want the interminable aching in my balls to cease. I'm thrusting my way to madness. I ride her until she can no longer speak. The harsh sound of her breathing is punctuated by needy whimpers; each one makes my balls tighter. I'm no longer confident I can wait her out.

"Please, sir!"

"Come for me," I whisper.

Her eyes pop open. The words were drawn from her own mind. She must suspect I know more than I should. I feel her pussy start to twitch around me. Her head rolls back, but she doesn't break her gaze. Although unfocused, her half-lidded eyes stay locked on mine. She says my name, and then the fist around me clenches and unclenches in a seizure. It's almost painful. My fight is finished; I'm gone. Her name comes to my lips, spilling out as my cock spills its seed. My spine echoes like a tuning fork, the release ringing through my pelvis until I'm mute and breathless.

I inhale sharply when it's over. Spots are floating in my vision. We both sound like runners after a marathon. Braced on my hands, I slump over her, trying to catch my breath.

"That was bloody fantastic," she smiles. "When can we do it again?"

I can't hold back the chuckle. Her honesty is refreshing. Not like a Slytherin at all. "Whenever you like. Just let me recover first."

Her fingers tickle my forearm. "I didn't know if you were up for another involuntary response tonight or not."

I glare at her impish grin. Her mocking stings. "If you say 'involuntary response' one more time, I'm going to beat your backside black and blue."

She doesn't flinch. "Promise?"

Merlin's bloody balls. She's going to be the death of me. Thankfully, there are no teachers' meetings in the afterlife, so there's that to look forward to. It pains me to say that I'm not dreading the next one. If this is the reward, I'll play along. Shame she's only going be here another ten months. Maybe she can be convinced to stay on longer. It might do wonders for my sanity.

"Severus?"

"Mmm?" I swim from the hazy post-coital peace of my head to find her grinning at me.

"Involuntary."


End file.
